


You're Not A Freak, Sherlock. You're Extraordinary, And Hamish Will Be, Too.

by joinallthefandoms



Series: The Story Of How The Lonely Detective With A Skull Found Himself With A Family [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Child Genius, Fluff, M/M, Parentlock, Sherlock Is Not A Freak, Sherlock Thinks He's A Freak
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-07
Updated: 2014-08-07
Packaged: 2018-02-12 04:19:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2095542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joinallthefandoms/pseuds/joinallthefandoms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John find out something interesting about the three-year-old Hamish...</p>
            </blockquote>





	You're Not A Freak, Sherlock. You're Extraordinary, And Hamish Will Be, Too.

“I didn’t start talking until I was 4 years old, John,” Sherlock tried to reassure his husband. “I’m sure it doesn’t mean anything.”

“Sherlock, even if you had started talking at the conventional age, you still wouldn’t have been a poster child for normalcy,” John replied, staring down at Hamish with worry in his eyes. Sherlock opened his mouth to argue but thought better of it when he observed how upset the ordeal was making John. He took his husband by the hand and brought him out of the bedroom so he would be out of the sleeping child’s earshot.

“I mean, he’s five, Sherlock!” John whisper yelled. He had learned how to quietly argue since his son’s arrival. “He can understand us well enough; he can point, nod, and shake his head. He smiles when we do and screams when we fight and laughs when we play with him. There’s nothing ‘wrong’ with him, but …” John’s voice trailed off. He was unsure of how to phrase the sentence, especially in front of Sherlock. Criticizing Hamish’s idiosyncrasies often reminded Sherlock of his own, so John had to tread very carefully.

“John, if the problem persists then we’ll seek medical help or psychiatric evaluation. But, until then, there’s not much we can do but wait,” Sherlock hit John with the puppy dog eyes and the army doctor relented with a sigh.

“Alright,” he agreed. He smiled a little and stood on his tip toes to press a kiss to the tip of Sherlock’s nose. His husband smiled in return and the two proceeded into the living room and returned to the case they had been working for three days straight. Even Sherlock was baffled. Three victims, seemingly random links between them, all killed in various parts of England and with different weapons, all within the same week. The authorities had tried to assure him that the murders were not connected, but Sherlock sensed a vague underlying pattern that his naked eye couldn’t observe. He and John pored over notes and pictures, occasionally speaking up with a random comment or inquisition, but otherwise remaining silent.

“It’s got to be their lines of work,” Sherlock mused, his hands under his chin in his trademark thinking pose. “They all worked menial jobs in the food industry..” Sherlock’s voice trailed off as he failed, yet again, to see the connection.

“They all worked for a drug cartel, daddy,” came a little voice from within the kitchen. Sherlock and John turned around so quickly you’d think they heard a gunshot. Hamish stood before them, his blonde hair ruffled by sleep and his teddy bear hanging limply by his side.

“Hamish? Wha-” John looked to Sherlock in confusion, but his husband was too busy working out the details.

“How do you know, Hamish?” Sherlock asked, genuinely confused. John was still too dumbfounded by his son’s declaration to react to his husband’s treating their five year old son like a detective.

“Look at their marks,” Hamish stepped onto a chair and pointed at their tattoos. Sherlock followed his son’s finger and suddenly, his eyes and face lit up like a christmas tree.

“Hamish! You’re a genius!” Sherlock picked his son up and swung him around, making him giggle. Sherlock kept holding Hamish to his chest as he spoke aloud.

“First victim, caucasian female with a tattoo of a diamond under her left ear. Second victim, hispanic male with a tattoo of a heart under his right ear. Third victim, black male, with a tattoo of a clover-”

“Wrong,” Hamish said, wriggling so Sherlock would let him down. The detective complied, letting his son down on the floor where he scurried into the kitchen. John had since gotten over his shock and was now watching Hamish with as much fascination as Sherlock. The boy came running back into the kitchen with a deck of cards, from which he drew the ace of clubs. Sherlock took the card from his son, and analyzed it for a few moments before he understood. His face lit up again like he had discovered the cure for cancer.

“I don’t understand,” John said, looking around Sherlock’s arm to catch a glimpse of the card.

“A very inconspicous, very hush-hush drug organization called the Full Hand. Their members are tattooed with one of the four suits of cards; hearts, diamonds, clubs, and spades, that being the order of the hierarchy. That means-”

“The murderer will kill the person with that marky thing,” Hamish concluded. John and Sherlock stared down at their little miracle with wonder and joy threatening to drown them.

“How did you know all this, ‘Mish?” John finally asked.

“I heard Daddy talking about it in April and I remembered,” Hamish answered.

“Hamish,” Sherlock’s voice was brimming with caution and trepidation. “What else do you remember?”

“Everything.”

“Who is my brother?” Sherlock asked, allowing immense fear to overtake him.

“Mycroft Holmes,” came Hamish’s simple reply, as if that were the most obvious thing in the world.

“What instrument does Daddy play?” John jumped in, not daring to believe that he had created another Sherlock. He didn’t have the genius DNA in the couple, so why was Hamish already so smart?

“The violin,” Hamish replied.

Sherlock and John continued quizzing him like that for several minutes before Hamish stopped them.

‘Papa, can I have some juice?” Hamish asked, setting himself down in Sherlock’s chair. The army doctor swelled with immeasurable joy and pride at the way Hamish called him “papa’. He went to get the juice right away. Sherlock sat on the floor in front of his son, a slight bit of bile crawling up his throat.

“Hamish?”

“Yes, Daddy?”

“Take this,” Sherlock handed him the violin. “Try to play something.” Hamish took the instrument in hand and placed it under his chin as he had seen his father do so many times before. He took the bow in his right hand and dragged it across the strings, sloppily trying to manage the instrument in his tiny hands. The initial noises were unpleasant and screechy, but the boy soon found his rhythm and was sliding the bow across the instrument with the ease and practice of a wise composer. Sherlock’s heart caught in his throat and he suddenly stood up and ran to the bathroom. He kneeled over the toilet bowl as bile was violently expelled from his mouth and continued to churn in his twisted stomach. John opened and closed the door to the bathroom not thirty seconds later, kneeling next to his husband as he was ill.

“What’s wrong, Sherlock?” John asked once the vomiting had ceased. Sherlock flushed the toilet and sat back against the wall, tears streaming down his pale face. John was worried, not because Sherlock looked sick, but because he looked worried.

“Hamish wasn’t supposed to be like this!’ Sherlock cried, a horrid sob escaping his burning throat.

“Be like what, honey?” John sat next to Sherlock and placed the detective’s head on his chest, wrapping a protective arm around his shoulders as he shook with the sobs.

“He has your DNA, he’s not supposed to be a freak like me!” Sherlock’s sorrow ignited a fiery passion in John. He wanted to murder any and everyone who had made Sherlock feel like a freak for being smart, for being different. He tucked Sherlock’s legs over his and held him close, clinging on for dear life as tears formed in his eyes too.

“Sherlock, listen to me,” John whispered. “You’re not a freak. You’re remarkable. You’re the greatest man I’ve ever known.” Sherlock couldn’t get a word out, his tears were so harsh and his sobbing so aggressive.

“I just wanted him to be normal. I wanted him to be like you,” Sherlock cried, clutching at John’s jumper as his tears slowed and he was able to talk.

“He’ll have just the right amount of both of us, honey. He’ll be able to see and observe,” John said lightly, earning a slight chuckle from Sherlock.

“He’s only three and he’s already solved more cases than Anderson,” John joked, pressing a light kiss to the top of his husband’s curly head. Sherlock giggled, wiping his tears on John’s jumper. He turned to look at his doctor and found himself once again lost in his eyes, the sapphire irises that were just like Hamish’s. Maybe, if he had someone like John, Hamish would be okay.

“Baby, don’t ever try to antagonize yourself for having been born a genius. You’re extraordinary, and in the best of ways. Those who insult you only do it because they’re ordinary and can’t accept the fact that you eclipse them,” John said, kissing Sherlock between the eyes. The taller man smiled contently as he pressed a kiss to John’s lips, tasting tears and the stability he could and would always associate with the army doctor.

The couple heard the bathroom door creak as it opened slightly, revealing a tiny John standing in the doorway.

“Why were you crying, Daddy?” Hamish asked, padding over to his dads.

“I thought you’d have it figured out, Mr. Genius,” Sherlock replied jokingly, taking Hamish by the hand and pulling him into his and John’s laps. Hamish shrieked with glee as his dads tickled him. The trio sat on the bathroom floor for nearly an hour, talking and discussing cases and arguing the controversies of the world. John sat back a bit, watching contently as Sherlock tried to explain the intricacies of the Copenhagen Interpretation of Quantum Mechanics to their five-year-old son. So, Hamish had somehow turned out a genius even without the Holmes DNA. _Mycroft’s going to have a field day,_ John thought to himself, running a hand absentmindedly through Hamish’s blonde hair. Their little family was now 66% genius, leaving John to provide the stability and the knowledge of social convention. They were balanced, they were perfect, and they certainly weren’t freaks, no matter what the ordinary people might say.

 

 

 


End file.
